A Desert Called Peace-ARC

by Tom Kratman

  The press was . . . stymied. When no one responded to their charges, except to admit them and insist the reprisals were lawful, they found they had no recourse. There was no blood in the water, no struggling body filled with fear of the righteous wrath of the media. The sharks couldn't go into a feeding frenzy.

  On the other hand, admitted Carrera to himself, as he exited his vehicle, while the press is defanged, if the Sumeris had a half functioning chain of command at army level and a couple of battalions of working armor, I'd be fucked.

  Logistically, the legion was a mess. Carrera had one cohort detached from the line to guard prisoners. There were so many of these that his one century of military police camp guards, even supplemented by the field police century, the walking wounded and as many service troops as could be spared, simply couldn't guard them all. In point of fact it was more important that he was feeding his prisoners than that he was guarding them. For food, they'd stick around. Guards? Eh? They could be ducked in a thick enough sandstorm.

  The rest of the legion was strung out over forty miles of bad road. The trucks were overtasked, especially given the sandstorm. The helicopters were grounded. Roughly half the armor was stuck, broken down or about to break down and waiting along the side of the road for recovery or repair. And the artillery? It was more disorganized and strung out than any other cohort in the legion.

  Thank God I listened to Harrington and Lanza and paid for the B-300 Dodos. Otherwise we'd have no means of reliable resupply. As is, the Dodos can drop us enough, just enough with what the trucks can bring through, to keep us going.

  About the only good thing one could say was that, between the Yezidi taking over security in the towns the legion cleared and the fact that Carrera was taking and holding prisoners rather than letting them go to become a threat to his communications, at least the trucks were getting through. When they didn't break down . . . or get lost . . . or crash into something invisible at ten feet for all the dust in the air.

  There was a small school house just outside this small, insignificant Sumeri town. Kennison had grabbed it for the legion's command post. All three of the operational staff teams, Operations itself, Logistics and Intelligence, were set up there. The doors were off as were the windows, though actually it was a matter of some conjecture whether the place had ever had doors and windows. In any case, blankets were hung over whatever openings there were. It cut the dust down, but could not entirely eliminate it.

  Carrera pushed aside a blanket and entered. Behind him, in the road fronting the school, a column of infantry struggled forward against the biting sand. The men were too tired to even curse. He thought this a bad sign.

  Inside, Triste and Fahad the Chaldean were engaged in a low volume but still heated discussion. A Sumeri officer, a captain, Carrera saw on closer inspection, sat in obvious incomprehension on a folding metal chair off to one side.

  Looking up, Triste saw Carrera observing himself and Fahad. "Boss, we gots problems," the intelligence officer announced.

  Carrera made a give forth motion with one hand.

  "The captain here," and Triste indicated the seated Sumeri, "has been most cooperative. He's a supply and transportation type and before we captured him had passed directly through Ninewa. He says the commander there is a Sumeri brigadier named Sada."

  "I know this man," Fahad interjected. "I know him well. As Tribune Triste says, 'We gots problems.'"

  "Where do you know him from, Fahad?" Carrera asked.

  "I was his instructor in English at the War College outside Babel. That's one way. But I also know him from elsewhere, when I was medic on the Farsian front twenty years ago. He was my commander."

  "Fahad says this guy is really good, Boss, tough and brave and smart. Says the men love him."

  "Oh, yes," the Chaldean interjected. "Best officer in whole fucking Sumeri army. Should be in command of whole army, too, but . . . wrong tribe." Fahad shrugged.

  "Does he play by the rules, Fahad?"

  "Rules, sayidi?"

  "Laws of war? Treatment of prisoners? Maintaining status of lawful combatancy?"

  "Oh. Yes, Legate. Sada is straight up. Tricks, yes. Dirty tricks? No."

  Carrera pondered that for a few minutes, standing in the dusty room in silence. When he had thought it through, he ordered, "Get me the PSYOP people. And Fahad, sit down and prepare to translate. Kennison, have we got a Cricket pilot crazy enough to fly in this shit?"

  Ninewa, 23/2/461 AC

  The sun was far from up when Faush knocked on Sada's room door.

  "What is it?" Sada demanded as he sat up and began pulling his boots on.

  Faush hesitated, not because he feared his commander's wrath at being awakened but because he himself was very confused.

  "Is that you, Faush?" Sada thought he had recognized the knock.

  "Yes, Amid," Faush answered through the slightly cracked door. "There is something you need to see. Leaflets from the enemy. The streets are full of them."

  "Come in then." Sada struck a match to light a kerosene lantern on a table next to his narrow bed.

  Faush handed his commander a green piece of paper. On the paper was printing in Arabic script. Sada read:

  To the defenders of Ninewa:

  It had come to my attention, from a reliable source, that despite the near continuous pattern of violations of the laws of war which have come to characterize the Sumeri defense over the last ten days, it is a distinct possibility that these violations will not be repeated in your town or by your unit. Thus, although I have previously given orders that no prisoners will be accepted unless they strip completely naked to demonstrate that they have no hidden weapons or explosives, and that – because of treachery on the part of men pretending to be wounded to gain an advantage – all remotely suspicious bodies, apparently dead or plainly living, were to be shot again for security's sake, I am temporarily rescinding these orders in your case.

  Those orders will remain rescinded for so long as, and not one moment longer than, the defenders of Ninewa themselves continue to obey the laws of war. It is up to you to police your own. If some of your men pretend to be wounded to gain a treacherous advantage, all of your wounded will suffer. If some abuse the flag of truce, the flag of truce will no longer be honored. If some use the symbols of the Red Crescent Organization treacherously, those symbols will not be respected further. If surrendering men attack, surrenders will not thereafter be accepted. If any of my men who fall into your hands are mistreated, yours will be butchered in return. If you fight from hospitals and mosques they will be obliterated. If you fight from behind women and children, we will take extra casualties to capture you alive so that you can be hanged in front of those same civilians whose sanctuary you will have violated.

  The choice is yours.

  You are reputed to be good soldiers. I hope, personally, that you and your commanders choose well.

  Signed,

  Patricio Carrera

  Legate, Legio del Cid

  Acting Commander

  "What do you think of it, Amid?" Faush asked.

  Sada didn't answer immediately. This was a strange development, unique in his personal experience. An enemy lecturing you on the law of war? Bizarre. On the other hand, he's got a point. The conduct of the irregulars . . . and even the regulars, has been a disgrace to this army. Perhaps here, maybe, we can redeem ourselves and our country's reputation. It will take some thought . . .

  "I think I need to talk to my senior officers and non-coms," Sada finally answered. "Assemble them at daybreak, here. And have a few dozen of these leaflets, enough to pass out, collected."

  Interesting, thought Sada, that my enemy is giving us this chance.

  * * *

  Surrounded by a dozen men he trusted, Sada's sergeant major listened attentively as the instructor explained to fifty of the Fedayeen as-Sumer, the civilian irregulars ordered raised and armed by the dictator, the finer points of convincing the enemy you were harmless in order to get cl
ose enough to them to detonate an explosive belt. The design of the belt, in particular, he thought clever.

  When the instructor had finished the sergeant major stood up and asked, enthusiastically, "Are you all prepared to give your lives like this?!?!"

  "Aywa! Aywa!" the fedayeen answered, with an enthusiasm to match the sergeant major's own. Yes! Yes!

  "Good," the sergeant major said, calmly. Then he said to his men, "Arrest them and put them in the penal platoon. All except for their instructor. Take that one outside and shoot him."

  * * *

  "Ah," said Faush. "Very clever indeed." The object of the major's admiration was an ambulance bearing the Red Crescent symbol which had had its sides reinforced with plate steel to serve as a clandestine armored personnel carrier. Two others in the hospital bay had been likewise converted, while a fourth and fifth had been made into suicide truck bombs.

  "Don't you agree, Sergeant Achmed, Private Omar, that this is a clever set up?"

  "Oh, yes, Major," the two submachine gun bearing enlisted assistants to the logistics officer agreed. "Very clever. Absolutely clever!"

  "Yes. Now please shoot the men responsible."

  The major was out the door and on his way to his next inspection before the submachine guns stopped chattering.

  * * *

  The damnable thing is, thought Sada, I can't help but use the hospital. It's the tallest building in town and the only one that will give the miserable air defense guns half a chance of covering the troops.

  He stood in the walled yard of a mosque, looking up at the hospital building that dominated the skyline even through the dust which still swirled in the air. A company of Sada's soldiers were engaged in removing a substantial armory of everything from small arms to explosives from the mosque's interior. It was neither a small mosque nor a small armory.

  While most of the company were busied with demilitarizing the mosque, one squad was engaged in removing the bodies of the mullah, two fedayeen, and one operative from the national secret police. Another squad had marched off the rest of the fedayeen to the penal platoon which had grown to be a very large company.

  Sada looked around, thinking hard. This compound would do for a hospital, he thought. Big enough. Covered. And there's a generator inside, which is more than the hospital can say. Still, using a hospital for an air defense site . . .

  Then he considered the other reason, the secret reason, the really, really big secret reason he had to play by the rules. His gaze wandered in the direction of the local university – Damned secret police had better get here and take those packages off my hands – and then back to the hospital.

  Well, I am the local governor, after all. I have the authority to close or move a hospital. Outside of a mosque a place doesn't become sacred merely for what it once was or could have been or even what it might be. Then again, what do I get out of it? One aircraft, maybe two. Then they flatten the building anyway.

  Sada sighed. Still, one or two are better than nothing. And I have to try.

  "Faush?" Sada asked, "How long to totally move the hospital from there to here?"

  "Amid . . . I'm not sure," the logistician answered. "It could be done in a couple of days, I suppose. It might be less time if you let me use the penal platoon as slaves."

  "Do it," Sada ordered. "But when you do it remove every trace that suggests the building is a hospital. And paint big target symbols on the sides. Yes . . . big ones."

  Command Post, Legio del Cid, 25/2/461 AC

  "Pat," Triste began, "it's the funniest thing. We got a message over the radio, from the enemy commander. It was in the clear. He wanted us to know that the hospital has been closed and may be considered a legitimate target. He spoke really excellent English, too."

  Fahad's chest swelled ever so slightly; the Chaldeans hadn't been given to excessive pride in a very long time. Even so, you could hear the pride in the man's voice when he said, "Well, Legate, I did teach him, after all."

  "The other thing is, Boss, we've taken fire from the hospital. They took out an RPV. Before the RPV went down, it got some good shots of the other side of the town. The civilians are moving out and being escorted by uniformed soldiers."

  Interlude

  Makkah al Jedidah, Al Donya al Jedidah, 5 Duh'l-Qa'dah 1507 AH (19 January, 2084 AD)

  If he had ever doubted that his bedroom vision was a true one, those doubts were dispelled when Abdul ibn Fahad took his first look out the window of the transport and, peering through the clouds, saw the new homeland below him. It was watered; it was green. Wonder of wonders, there were trees, not merely around oases, but in forests large and small scattered across the landscape.

  Animals grazed, Abdul saw, as the shuttle descended lower to fly over the landscape. Great herds of them wandered, heads down in the verdant grass or muzzles submerged in the flowing water of the land's many rivers and streams. Abdul did not even try to count them; he knew that all was as Allah had foretold in his vision.

  Some of the elephants seemed impossibly large and incredible hairy.

  The view of the new land disappeared behind flying grass and dust as the shuttle came to a hover by the spot Abdul had selected – rather, that he had known as soon as he had seen it on a map – for the first settlement. The engines squealed and the landing struts thrummed as the ship settled down to a jarring landing. There was another hydraulic sound as the two ramps, one on the side for passengers and one in the rear for cargo, lowered themselves to the ground.

  Accompanied by his dozen closest followers, Abdul and his Salafis stood and moved, rifles in hand, to the relatively open area by the landing ramp. The rifles were of the older style, muzzle loading and flintlock fired. They were Salafis, by Allah, and dedicated to doing things in the old way. Admittedly, even the muzzle loaders post-dated the true Salafis, those generations of the Prophet's time and the two that followed. Nonetheless, the muzzle loaders pre-dated the influx of contaminating western ideas and, so, Abdul had judged them, in the absence of guidance to the contrary from above, as being fit to carry to the New World.

  Four of his followers, specially selected for their piety and their physical strength, carried the Stone, the single oblong rock he had been instructed and allowed to take from the Kaaba in Mecca. From this stone, the spiritual link to the original Holy City would be maintained. Toward this stone, and the new Kaaba that would be built, the faithful would pray and their prayers be carried across Allah's infinite space.

  With deep piety, the party moved down the ramp, Abdul leading the four selected to carry the Stone and the other eight flanking the porters as an honor guard. Abdul led the group to a spot far enough away that the litter-carried stone would not be sullied by the blast when the shuttle took off to bring in the next load. He told the four porters to guard it and then made a motion for the other eight to follow him. These he led to the shuttle's cargo ramp. Already the first of the camels, horses, sheep and goats were being offloaded by others among his followers. The armed men were not needed for that.

  In all things Abdul and his followers intended to follow the ways of those who had known, or followed closely in the footsteps of, the Prophet. What was permitted by Allah must never be forbidden. What was forbidden must never be permitted. All things must be as they were.

  What the guards were needed for was the other large portion of the cargo. These walked on two feet. They had been purchased from several sources. Some came from among those who had made the Hajj to Makkah. These sometimes found then that they lacked the money to return to their homelands and sold either themselves or their children. Some came from various places on Earth where certain otherwise illegal transactions were permitted, notably northern Africa, Pakistan's Northwest Frontier Province, and the Balkans. It was this cargo that would actually do the work of cutting the stone and building the new Kaaba. It was this cargo that would warm the bedrolls of the Salafis at night.

  There were those 'possessed by the right hand' of Abdul and his followers.
These were the slaves.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The power of an air force is terrific when there is nothing to oppose it.

  —Winston Churchill

  Outskirts of Ninewa, Sumer, 28/2/461 AC

  The sandstorm had lifted two days prior. With that lifting winter ended and a terrible, oppressive heat descended onto the playing field. With the lifting, also, planes and helicopters were able to fly in parts and men from the main depot at the airport and the smaller one at Mangesh. Convoys wandering lost in the desert or hunkered down were scouted for from the air, found and directed. Tanks were recovered and sent forward. It had even proven possible for Christian, the legion's "II," or personnel officer, to ferry in two just-graduated classes of replacements, about four hundred privates, to make up for losses suffered to date, plus a bit.